


can't you feel my heart beat fast (I want it to last, need you by my side)

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, not dumb but definitely dumbasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19477162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: Five times Aziraphale and Crowley were awkward about touching and one time they weren't.





	can't you feel my heart beat fast (I want it to last, need you by my side)

After the Fall and Subsequent Expulsion of Man, things became much quieter in the Garden. Aziraphale missed the humans, honestly. It wasn’t like guarding the eastern gate was difficult, but it was incredibly boring. They brought interest to an otherwise tedious duty, as they were lively, curious and inquisitive about everything around them. And now he didn’t even have his sword to do silly tricks with 1 (which he regretted a tiny bit, even if he knew it was the right thing to do).  
  
“Angel. Angel!”  
  
“Yes!” He turned to see Crowley, who had evidently been trying to get his attention for quite some time.  
  
“If you’re done woolgathering--”  
  
“What’s a wool?” (Sheep had not been domesticated yet.)  
  
“Never mind. I wanted to tell you I’m leaving.”  
  
“Are you? To where?” Aziraphale, to his surprise, felt a little disappointed at this news. Crowley had become a familiar presence at the Garden, one he had grown accustomed to. He thought for sure this sort of… familiarity would be frowned upon, but when no word came from either side, he concluded it must be all right. (Or they didn’t care, which in the end was the exact same thing.)  
  
“Sumeria, I think. The humans are going to spread out, form communities. I expect some of them will get itchy feet and want to see what else is out there. Lots of ground for one demon to cover.” There was a decided note of false cheer in his voice that made Aziraphale wonder about how dedicated he was to the infernal Plan, but he thought it would be rude (at the very least, and blasphemous at worst) to ask.  
  
“Ah. Well. Good luck in your future endeavors?” Instinctively they both looked up and down, but no sign of opprobrium (or approval, or indifference) appeared.  
  
“Same to you. Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime.” Crowley turned to leave, and Aziraphale reached out and touched his shoulder.  
  
His first thought was that Crowley was dreadfully skinny. His second was surprise that nothing happened when they touched, as he half-expected. There were no sparks, explosions, or even the resigned coexistence of oil and water. His last was that Crowley didn’t seem disgusted by the gesture, merely confused, and there was a powerful, unexpected relief in that realization.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Aziraphale took his hand back. “I wanted to let you know it’s been… diverting having you here.” That was the truth, even if it wasn’t all of it. (Sometimes angels, like humans, need some time to sit with things they know but aren’t quite ready to acknowledge. But the scale is quite different.)  
  
Crowley smiled. Not his usual reptilian-tinged smirk, but a genuine, honest-to-Someone smile. It went up to his eyes and everything. “Glad to oblige, then.”  
  
Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but he thought Crowley might have turned a tiny bit pink at the words. It was probably a trick of the light.  
  
He cleared his throat. “Well. I shan’t keep you any longer. You must have places to be.”  
  
“Er, yes. Of course,” Crowley said, like he wasn’t sidetracked from the task at hand.  
  
Aziraphale walked off towards the eastern gate, back to his post. Crowley called after him. “Oi! If you’re ever in the area, look me up!”  
  
He waved to acknowledge he heard. That wasn’t actually a bad idea and he made a note to do so if he headed in that direction.  
  
\--  
  
Aziraphale was wandering through a market in Babylon when he saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. The crowd moved fast enough that he was a bit winded by the time he finally caught up.  
  
“I say, is that you Crowley?”  
  
The figure stopped. “Who’s asking?” He said warily.  
  
“Aziraphale. From the Garden, remember?”  
  
Crowley turned around. “Of course! It’s been a while.” At this he grinned, and Aziraphale found something else he didn’t realize he missed until now.  
  
“What have you been up to these days?”  
  
“Same old same old. Lots of tempting to do in a place with this many people. I’ve got a line on a copper merchant who’s been thinking of selling substandard ingots to an irritatingly mouthy customer.” Aziraphale recognized the delight Crowley took in a good tempting. It was as much art as craft, and he did it well. And then Aziraphale remembered that was something his Side discountenanced, and sniffed disdainfully.  
  
They walked along the edge of the market for a while before Aziraphale spoke up. “Would you like to eat something?”  
  
Crowley blinked. “What for? Neither of our kind require material sustenance.”  
  
Aziraphale looked at him as if the answer should have been self-evident. “Because it’s interesting. Humans, once they have enough leisure to do more than the basics, are endlessly inventive. Given the availability of the same ingredients, no meal made by different cooks is ever the same. There’s an inn a few blocks over that makes a delectable garlic and lamb stew. Are you coming?”  
  
Crowley didn’t quite smile, but Aziraphale thought he detected a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Angel, you would be strange wherever you dwell.”  
  
The stew was indeed very good, and the woman who ran the place also brewed beer, which was even better than the stew. The night wound down, and the owner kicked them out. They walked along the mostly deserted streets, full and pleasantly drunk.  
  
Crowley stopped in front of a small house. One of the windows had not had its shutters drawn, and Aziraphale saw that it was lined with plants.  
  
“New hobby?” He asked.  
  
“Something like that. Keeps me busy, when things are slow.”  
  
“We all have to find things to occupy our time. I’m thinking of collecting tablets. There’s this new poem called ‘Gilgamesh’ that seems to be all the rage among the literati.”  
  
“Can’t say I understand, but I hope you get whatever you want out of it.” Crowley gestured at the house rather awkwardly. “So, this is me. Got to get my tempting schedule in order and such.”  
  
“Oh! Of course. It was very gracious, spending your evening with me.”  
  
He turned to make his way back, and Crowley caught his arm. It was a light hold, barely any pressure, but Aziraphale was keenly aware of Crowley’s fingers around his forearm, right above the wrist. He looked at Crowley, who seemed rather surprised himself, and released his grasp on Aziraphale.  
  
“I wanted to tell you. Before you left, I mean. It was good to see you.” Perhaps it was the hour of the night, or the lingering inebriation, but there was a softness to Crowley’s voice. Aziraphale found he would not have minded listening to Crowley speak that way for as long as he cared to. But it was indeed late.  
  
“I feel the same. I hope we can do it again soon.”  
  
That time he really did leave. On the way back, the feel of Crowley’s touch against his arm lingered. It was strange, but not unwelcome. (It would be many centuries before he ran across a quote from some physicist about the relativity of time, and remember exactly what it felt like to have a moment last forever.)  
  
\--  
  
Aziraphale knew a gladiator, and there was an important fight coming up. It seemed perfectly sensible to go to the Colosseum and wish him luck. He didn’t know if his nature made him hard to spot or if the guards just didn’t care, but he ended up in a practice yard. Where nobody expected him to be, with flying projectiles everywhere.  
  
And to be fair, the notion of mortal peril does not apply to angels, fallen or otherwise, at least in the way it is typically understood. It's not like he would have died or anything, but the paperwork to get a discorporated body back together is something he wouldn't have wished on Satan himself. (After the almost-apocalypse? Maybe 2.)  
  
He saw a javelin headed straight for the centre of his torso. As he was mentally preparing to fill out forms in septuplicate for about half an eon, he felt a hand yank him away from where the javelin landed. (It stuck into the wall quite firmly and would have hurt a great deal.)  
  
He bumped into a body, all skinny and sharp with nowhere near enough meat to cushion the force of that pull. Of course it was Crowley. He still had Aziraphale’s toga clutched in his hand.  
  
It was at this point Aziraphale found himself experiencing two conflicting emotions at the exact same time. The contact felt transgressive, unusual; but also intriguing. (In what manner he wasn’t quite sure, but that was something for later him to figure out.)  
  
He also discovered that while proximity is very close to touch, it is absolutely not the same as touching. The press of flesh against flesh, even through layers of cloth, is something you can feel. And being cognizant of that was somehow far more intimate than those artistically flayed models of Renaissance anatomy books, holding up their own skins to reveal the muscles underneath. (At least that’s what he would think when they were invented.)  
  
The acknowledgement of their physical situation appeared to have finally penetrated both their brains, and they moved apart like two wrong ends of a magnet: propulsively, instinctively; a scramble back to safer, more familiar ground. Neither of them would admit to it then 3, but there was also an undercurrent of something missing, a want of whatever it was that happened a few moments ago.  
  
"Well, I suppose I should say thank you." Aziraphale straightened his toga and made sure the brooch on his shoulder was secure.  
  
"I know you hate paperwork," Crowley said. It wasn’t quite "You're welcome," but probably as close as he’d ever come.  
  
Before Aziraphale could say anything else, Crowley was gone. That night, and other nights on and off throughout the millennia, Aziraphale had a glass of wine and thought about the way it felt when they were pressed together.  
  
\--  
  
The next time he had occasion to touch Crowley, it was in Venice at a party. He was surrounded, and at first Aziraphale thought he was holding court. The closer he moved to the knot of people, he realized it was the exact opposite. Crowley appeared witty and amiable, but unless he’d picked up some new hobbies in the past few centuries, he was desperately out of his element.  
  
Aziraphale skirted around the back of the crowd, coming up next to him. “Signor Corvino!” he cried, clasping his hands over Crowley’s shoulders and kissing both his cheeks. “It has been a very long time.”  
  
“We were not aware Signor Corvino was an acquaintance, Signor Cascata,” a woman in a dark blue dress said. Aziraphale couldn’t remember her name but he thought she might have been a lesser Donato cousin.  
  
“We have known each other for many years,” he replied.  
  
“Feels like forever sometimes,” Crowley said, too forced and too bright.  
  
Aziraphale made idle chit-chat for a little while, just enough to be polite and a tiny bit more. He was vaguely aware of throwing an arm over Crowley’s shoulder, an action meant to be friendly but ended up equal parts protective and possessive. He was, however, quite cognizant of Crowley slipping an arm around his waist.  
  
It felt electric everywhere they made contact. Intellectually Aziraphale knew this was impossible, but it was a thing to know and another completely to have evidence of the contrary tingling in one’s senses.  
  
“If you’ll excuse us, we have many things to catch up on,” Aziraphale said, hopefully not as breathlessly as he felt. (Which was rather impressive, considering he didn’t breathe.)  
  
They moved away from the vast expanse of the party, finding a secluded little balcony that overlooked the main floor.  
  
Crowley nudged him. “There’s no one here. Why are you still doing that?”  
  
“Doing what?”  
  
“Touching me.”  
  
Aziraphale was about to be indignant when he realized Crowley’s arm was still about his waist. “I could ask you the same.”  
  
“Er, yes. Of course.”  
  
They disentangled from each other, but stayed close. (The balcony was quite narrow, so wasn’t like they could have moved apart all that much anyways 4.) Down below, in response to an unseen signal, music started playing and people began to dance. Neither of them knew what the steps were, but the movement and swirls of color entertained nonetheless.  
  
“I think I might like to do that someday,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“What’s stopping you from doing it now?” Crowley asked.  
  
“The dances I have seen are lovely, but they do not speak to me as something I would like to do myself.”  
  
Crowley made a hmm noise. “Something will come along eventually.”  
  
“Who knows? Maybe it’s something you’ll want to participate in too.”  
  
For the first time in a long while, Crowley looked appalled, apparently trying to figure out how exactly his serpentine-inclined form would move in both coordination and rhythm.  
  
Aziraphale smirked 5. “It’s still quite delightful, just observing.”  
  
“Angel, when you finally find a dance you like, I’m going to make sure it becomes popular for a short time and then never again 6.”  
  
\--  
  
They weren’t trying to get into a fight. It’s just there were an awful lot of inebriated people wandering around on Friday night; some of them were bound to run into each other and take offense to that. Usually somebody’s mate came to their senses and pulled the combatants apart, but tonight that didn’t happen. Quickly, it grew from a series of altercations to a Legitimate Incident, and a large contingent of constables swooped in.  
  
Aziraphale wasn’t sure whose idea it was to duck into an alley, but this particular precinct’s bobbies were known for being a bit, ah, overzealous 7. Likewise, he wasn’t sure how he’d ended up shielding Crowley from any view of the street, or how his hand ended up under Crowley’s leather jacket, curled around his hip. Nor could he account for the pressure of Crowley’s palm at his nape, grounding but also grasping, like he needed something--someone to hold onto.  
  
It was quiet enough they could have heard the other breathe, if that was a thing either of them did. Crowley’s eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but Aziraphale felt him looking. A wave of emotion flooded over him in response. This was familiar, the urge to protect, shelter; present from the very beginning. Not that Crowley was incapable of taking care of himself, but Aziraphale wanted to. It was one of the reasons he finally gave Crowley the holy water, even if he never would have admitted it 8.  
  
Crowley looked past him to the street. “I think it’s settled,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.  
  
“We should go,” Aziraphale agreed.  
  
They stayed close on the walk back to Crowley’s flat. Crowley slept in the chair and complained about what it did to his back. Aziraphale sniffed and reminded him he’d offered Crowley the bed, which he refused. He did, however, slip a tiny miracle into Crowley’s tea before heading back to the shop.  
  
\--  
  
The sun is low when they finally exit the Ritz, the sky resplendent in orange and pink. In the park a nightingale warbles a melody. Aziraphale reaches out for Crowley’s hand and tangles their fingers together. There are no fireworks, literal or figurative, but there is a gentle sense of repose, things settling down as they should.  
  
Hand in hand, they walk back to the bookshop. A couple times, Aziraphale glimpses a smile from a passerby. (He arranges for them a minor miracle the next time they are on the cusp of despair, the kind that makes a person wonder about the existence of a beneficent guardian when they think back on it later.)  
  
They’re in the narrow hallway that leads up to Aziraphale’s flat when Crowley turns towards him. He can’t see Crowley’s eyes, but his expression is soft. Crowley’s other hand comes up to the side of his face, thumb brushing along the line of his cheek. Aziraphale closes his eyes, tries not to lean into the sensation.  
  
The kiss is slow, deliberate, tender; the kind that presumes there will be more (and different kinds) in the future, so why not take time to enjoy this one to the fullest? When they finally break apart (Aziraphale has never been more grateful to not need to breathe), Crowley lifts an eyebrow.  
  
“Too fast for you, angel?” There’s no bite in it, just the right amount of effrontery, and it makes something in Aziraphale’s chest lift.  
  
He leads them up the stairs into his flat, shutting the door before gently pushing Crowley against it. “On the contrary my dear, I should say not fast enough.”  
  


* * *

  


1 It was incredibly unlikely he would ever learn such things, but there was always the possibility he could have if he’d kept it. ↩  
  
2 Definitely. ↩  
  
3 Or for a rather significant period of time, perhaps best measured in eons and not centuries. ↩  
  
4 It was a fairly narrow balcony, but not that narrow. ↩  
  
5 A very un-angelic thing to do, one would think, but Heaven was not exactly bereft of confidence in its superiority. ↩

6 Crowley had nothing to do with the 19th century gavotte’s popularity or lack thereof, being asleep at the time. The Macarena, however, was all him. ↩  
  
7 He and Crowley ensured they paid for it: Aziraphale by making sure worthier candidates for promotion received the appropriate attention, Crowley by ensuring those on the weekend beat were instantly plagued with bunions. ↩  
  
8 To Crowley, yes, but most importantly, to himself. ↩

**Author's Note:**

> Their Italian monikers are stupid puns for my own amusement. Don't @ me because I don't care.
> 
> Since people kept asking, I made [a guide to inserting footnotes with a WYSYWIG editor](https://pearwaldorf.tumblr.com/post/187101781697/hello-friends-ive-gotten-a-number-of-comments-on). Please share and reblog if you found it useful.


End file.
